


The Case of the Vanishing Vampire

by AdaptationDecay



Category: Discworld
Genre: #Yulechat Challenge 2010, Action/Adventure, Bechdel Test Pass, Blood, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Complete, Crimes, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Gift Fic, Humor, Minor Canonical Character(s), Mystery, Mystery Stories, Past Tense, Photography, Police, Politics, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, Religions, Teamwork, They Fight Crime!, Trains, Vampires, Whodunnit, Yuletide, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdaptationDecay/pseuds/AdaptationDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reg and Visit are drawn into a mystery at the heart of Ankh Morpork's undead community. Why would a lifelong black-ribboner suddenly try to kill his landlady? And why have his ashes mysteriously disappeared? With the rest of the Watch focused on a threat to the new underground rail network, Reg and Visit will need to work together to solve the case, because if the two of them can't manage to put aside their differences, somebody's going to get away with murder...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chelomovediffamy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> Q. Why is this fic like the Ankh-Morpork coat of arms?  
> A. They were both supported by hippos.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the good people of #Yuletide: Doranwen and Fran who dropped ropes when I fell into my own plotholes, SteelNeko who came up with one of the OCs, Kurushi who agreed to beta-read despite an impossibly tight deadline and TL whose gentle command of "This is never going to be finished on time, you need to start writing an alternate fic NOW" is the only reason I'm not perma-banned from Yuletide.
> 
> But most of all it's dedicated to my recipient, who has the patience of the saint and whose prompt basically amounted to "One's an evangelist, the other's a zombie; together THEY FIGHT CRIME!" which is clearly the most awesome prompt in the history of Yuletide.
> 
> KannaOphelia? This is for you...

This is the Discworld, which travels through space on the back of a giant turtle. For some years now, scholars of the Disc have been pursuing a theory that the moods of the star turtle, Great A'Tuin, are somehow transmitted to the population of the Disc through a form of transference they call Chelemovediffamy. This goes to show:

1\. That everything sounds more impressive in Latatian.  
2\. That people will study just about anything if there's grant money available.  
3\. Why so many people that morning were in an equally bad temper.

Alfred Glumley of Mason's Road, Ankh-Morpork was in a very bad mood indeed. He shuffled around his ground floor flat in a pair of worn, beige carpet slippers, muttering to himself. His complaints were familiar ones, to the point where he no longer bothered to form entire sentences, but simply voiced the most salient points in a breathless mumble.

"Bloody cigarettes. Filling the house with smoke. Filthy habit. Oughtn't to be allowed. Think he is? Toffee nosed. Doesn't belong here. Getting up to Gods know what. Uncivilised. What's she thinking of? Example to set. Should know better. Vampires! And a child in the house. Disgusting. Untamable. Does she listen? In and out at all hours. What good's a ribbon? Can't be trusted. Turn on her one day. Turn on the boy. Can't say I never warned them."

His monologue was interrupted by a loud thud from the hallway. Glumley wrenched open the door and glared at the landlady's son, who was still in a half-crouch from having jumped the last six stairs.

"What do you think you're playing at Kevin Potts?"

"Goin' out, Mister Glumley."

"Coming down those stairs like a herd of elephants. Have you no consideration?"

"Sorry, Mister Glumley."

"Just because your mother lets you run wild doesn't mean you can start making a racket outside my doorway. D'you understand, Kevin Potts?"

"Mm," said Kevin noncommitally and gave Mr Glumley what Glumley considered to be a highly insolent look.

"Well, just see you don't."

Glumley shut the door and settled into the armchair beside the front window. It provided a good view of the street outside and he could see Kevin Potts racing down the pathway, with a battered iconograph box swinging from one shoulder.

"Bad end. See if he doesn't. Untameable," said Glumley, returning to his staccato complaints and scanning the street for signs of wrongdoing.

Old Mr Glumley quite often saw things from his window which displeased him, but he never thought about moving the chair.

 

William De Worde was not in a good mood either that morning. He'd been reading the Letters To The Editor, which seldom raised his spirits. His morning post was usually full of complaints, corrections, and calls for the city to bring back public flogging.

Today, however, there was a more worrying letter than usual. William slit open the envelope, read the letter, read it again and then sat back in his chair fretfully.

It presented the sort of dilemma he'd like to discuss with a colleague. Unfortunately Otto wouldn't be back until that evening and Sacharissa was still in Far Uberwald covering the Loko affair and sending back such detailed reports about goblin snot pots that William suspected she was angling for a book deal from the whole thing.

He dismissed Rocky, Bendy, O'Biscuit and Mrs Tilly out of hand. The only other soul in the office was Jamie, who'd worked in insurance before coming to The Times and appeared to have no discernable personality. Keen of course and terribly useful when they were trying to estimate the cost of yesterday's fiasco at the docks, but not really a person you could confide in.

There was always somebody in the press room, of course, but telling a secret to one of the press operators was frequently the same thing as telling, not just everybody in the press room, but also everybody in the Bunch of Grapes later on.

No, William would have to make this decision on his own.

He looked down at the letter, which appeared to have been constructed scrapbook-style, using words from the previous day's issue of The Times. The content of the message however was far more incendiary than any of the news that had provided the raw material.

Bugger.

"Jamie, can you hold the fort here for a bit? I need to run out for a moment."

"Right-o!"

William was holding a really explosive story in his hands and instead of publishing, he was about to hand it over to the most dangerous man in the city.

He hated doing that.

 

The Patrician, Lord Vetinari was also not in the best of tempers. When Commander Sam Vimes walked into the Oblong Office, Vetinari appeared to be engrossed in that morning's copy of The Ankh-Morpork Times. **CITY WATCH GET SINKING FEELING** , screamed the headline in 72 point font.

Vimes sighed when he saw it.

"I can explain."

The Patrician laid down the newspaper daintily and merely said, "Please do."

"Sergeant Belter was dressing down Lance-Constable Stronginthearm for folding a signal flag incorrectly. He asked Stronginthearm to let go of it, so he could show him how to do it properly. It was sheer bad luck that Constable Fittly overheard the words 'Let go' and thought they were a command. He'd only been seconded to the the river watch that week because his partner was visiting Omnia on leave. Anyway, that's why he let go of the left hand anchor."

"I believe the nautical term is 'port', but do continue. This halted the patrol boat?"

"Well, no. It was going almost flat out, so the whole boat swung around to the left until the anchor chain broke. After that it carried on up the river, sideways."

"In which state, I understand, it reached Pons Bridge. Certainly the operator showed remarkable presence of mind in raising the swing bridge to facilitate the passage of the vessel," said Vetinari. "Unfortunately, it appears he neglected to stop the oncoming traffic from the direction of Sheer Street, resulting in the fall to the foredeck of..?"

"The mail coach to Quirm, two dunnywagons and a cart full of pigs," admitted Vimes, reluctantly.

"Quite. Although, happily any further interference from the bridge operator was ruled out when the patrol boat destroyed his cabin."

"That was Fittly again. He was trying to slow the boat down by dropping the other anchor. Of course, the boat just swung around again and the anchor chain got ripped out of its housing, but he meant well."

"To be sure. And the explosion, further downstream?"

"The boat got tangled in something as it rounded the bend."

"Something being?"

"Archchancellor Ridcully's fishing rod. He was taken by surprise and... well, you know wizards, sir."

"So the explosion would be..."

"When the fireball hit the dunnywagons."

Vetinari sighed.

"Which explains - presumably - how the ships in Two Pint Dock subsequently caught fire. In fact, your river watch has managed, in less than five minutes, to cost the city more than two thousand dollars."

Vimes looked straight ahead, with a studied expression of total blankness.

"As I said, sir, honest mistake. Could have happened to anybody. And nobody was hurt."

"Had they been, Vimes, the situation might be considerably easier. Stricken people are generally less expensive than stricken ships." Vetinari steepled his fingers and glared at Vimes over the top. "You do understand why this is a particularly bad time for the city to be incurring unnecessary expense?"

Yes, thought Vimes, because you've mortgaged the city to the hilt interfering in everybody's privies.

Aloud, he merely said "Because of the Undertaking."

"Precisely. The new sewerage system is now complete. The underground carriage network proceeds apace. The passageways under the river lag behind, but your men have at least provided everybody with a shining example of their necessity. The world watches, Commander. All eyes are fixed upon Ankh-Morpork to see if these changes are sustainable."

And if they're not, thought Vimes, your job's looking pretty unsustainable as well.

"I see we understand each other," said the Patrician, giving the nasty impression that he was reading Vimes' mind. "Yet opposition remains to the Undertaking. The Guild of Plumbers in particular..."

The contract for the new sewerage system had been given, controversially, to Harry King the scrap merchant instead of the Guild of Plumbers, who had gone on strike in protest.

"And now these troubling rumours about the columns."

"Sir?"

"It appears a rumour is circulating that the supporting columns for the underground carriage network are being used as a convenient burial place by those involved in unauthorised crime."

"You gave the contract to the Breccia! There probably _are_ bodies in those columns."

"These are, of course, baseless accusations against a group of the city's leading businessmen, who won the contract legitimately after submitting the most competitive bid," said Vetinari as if he hadn't been listening. "I'm sure I don't need to spell out what will happen if such rumours are permitted to spread."

He didn't. The Undertaking had originally been a dwarf project using dwarf technology. Vetinari's decision to invite tenders for various aspects of the project from other parts of the community had not been looked kindly upon by those members of the community who were under four feet tall. This stuff about the columns could be the last straw for the dwarfs - who never needed much of an excuse to scrap with trolls anyway.

"Then there are those who feel a personal grievance against the project for its impact on their property values, the so-called DUMBYs."

"Don't Undermine My Back Yard?"

"A lost cause, I feel. Next week, the underground carriage network will open and the city can begin to recoup in ticket sales some of its substantial investment, but until then there will be many other nations who look at Ankh-Morpork's stretched finances and see an opportunity."

"Sir," said Vimes. It was always a safe response.

"I enumerate the enemies of the Undertaking, Vimes, because I believe it will assist you in your search for the author of _this_."

Vetinari selected a piece of paper from his in-tray and proferred it.

"It was sent to the offices of The Times. Mr De Worde elected to bring it to my attention rather than publishing it in his newspaper as the letter writer suggests. Happily your men were able to offer a viable alternative for the front page."

Vimes scowled, then scowled deeper as he read the note.

"Could be nasty. I suppose there's no point asking you to delay-"

"I shall be making the maiden voyage on the underground carriage network as planned," said the Patrician. "Which is why you will find the author of this letter and bring him to justice before Monday."

"It'll mean mounting a city-wide search for-"

"Discretion is of the essence. The world watches, Vimes. We cannot let their confidence in the Undertaking falter."

With which comment, Vetinari abruptly returned to his paper. Having evidently been dismissed, Vimes turned to leave the room, still clutching the note.

"Oh and Vimes, while you investigate..."

"Yes?"

"Do try to discourage your officers from destroying anything too expensive this time."

 

Half an hour later, Vimes was in his office at Pseudopolis Yard, showing Captain Carrot the letter that had been sent to The Times.

"Explosions underground! As if we didn't have enough to worry about. Right, I'll need you to get me a squad together as quietly as you can. We'll want golems: Dorfl, Chatzkl, Itzik... Who else is fireproof?"

"If you pull Dorfl off the Elm Street beat, you'll need to replace him. Reg can't do that whole manor on his own."

"Washpot gets back from Omnia tomorrow. He can work with Reg. After that fiasco on the river-boat, Fittly's on gardening leave until further notice."

"Are you sure that's wise, sir? Visit could be a bit of a nightmare on Elm Street and he doesn't always see eye to eye with Corporal Shoe."

"We've got more on our plate right now than some petty religious squabble. They'll just have to sort it out."

"Actually, sir. I think it's rather more than..."

Trolls? Vimes thought. No. Trolls are technically fireproof, but they were a silicon based lifeform and their intelligence degraded badly in the heat. You could send a troll officer in to put a fire out and he'd forget what he was there for once he reached the blaze. Dwarfs, though... They were at home underground, which would be useful if they had to conduct a search of that bloody tunnel network. Hells! He'd have to talk to De Worde about that note and he _hated_ dealing with the press. Maybe he could-

"What about Haddock, Sir? Visit would work well with him, I think and we could use Reg on the underground-"

"No Captain. I want to keep this squad small. Reg can work with Visit; they'll be good for each other," said Vimes. "At least if they know what's good for them."

Commander Vimes was suffering from Chelemovediffamy and when Vimes was displeased, he tended to spread it around with a big shovel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The travails of the river patrol are loosely based on a story from the journal of the Thames River Police. I'm pretty sure it's apocryphal. Nobody's _that_ unlucky.


	2. Good Cop, Dead Cop

Constable Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets arrived at the Treacle Mine Road watch house to see a vaguely humanoid figure standing outside and smoking a dog-eared roll-up.

"Morning Nobby."

"Morning Washpot. How was Omnia?"

"Wonderful. I followed in the footsteps of the prophet Brutha across the desert as described in the Octateuch, then toured the Holy Citadel. I even stood on the very spot where Om himself last manifested! Oh and I bought back some pistachio halvah for everybody."

"Cheers Washpot! I'll see it gets shared out."

The halvah was taken from Visit's hands and vanished into the depths of one of Nobby's many pockets.

"I also bought back some exciting pamphlets, which really explain Om's plan for--"

BEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBAR!

"What," said Visit once his hearing returned, "was that?"

"Ah," said Nobby, looking relieved at the change of subject. "That's what the sirens sound like in the new squad carts."

"Squad carts?"

"Come on inside and I'll show you."

Visit followed Nobby into the stables at the side of the watchhouse and found himself lost for words.

"They're very... _very_!"

"Ah. You've hit the nail on the head there, Washpot and no mistake!" Said Nobby, swinging himself up into the drivers seat of the most impressive coach. "Very pretty, very fast and very expensive. Stoneface paid for 'em out of his own money, cos the Patrician said there weren't no cash to update the old wagons. And he's had the wizards at 'em. Watch this!"

Nobby pulled a lever on the dashboard and the stables were instantly filled with the wailing sound from before and a piercing blue light.

"That's so people know we're coppers and get out the way," said Nobby in the tones of one imparting secret knowledge. "And they'll need to get out of the way, because these things go like the absolute clappers. It's all cos of that underground wagon train thing they're opening next week. If people can get from King's Down to Kicklebury Street in the blink of an eye, stands to reason criminals'll start doing it. So we're getting bang up to date and that means five shiny new squad carts, what I'm in charge of. They wanted somebody reliable, so Carrot's made me Fleet Manager. Said it wanted a steady hand after what happened with the river boat. Poor ol' Fittly, eh?"

Visit was still mentally translating 'They wanted somebody reliable, so Carrot's made me Fleet Manager' into 'Carrot wants Nobby kept busy at the watch house for a while' when his brain suddenly caught up to the end of the sentence.

"Eh? What's happened to Fittly?"

"You not heard yet? They put him on the river patrol while you was on your hols and he had a bit of a country-tumps on the boat. He's not likely to be in work again for a while, so I expect you'll be getting another partner."

"Poor Fittly. I must visit him this evening and see if he's okay."

"Okay? He's been told to stay at home on full pay. I'd be over the bleeding moon! Anyway, you'd best go see Carrot and find out who you'll be working with instead. He's been mucking around with the rotas this week; it could be practically anyone."

As Visit hurried inside the watch house, there was a horrible snuffling noise from behind him. Like somebody trying to surreptitiously eat 5 pounds of Omnian sweets.

 

Upstairs in the watch house, Captain Carrot was introducing Visit to his new partner.

It wasn't going well.

"But I've got a partner," said Reg. "I work with Dorfl. We know that beat inside out."

"Commander Vimes feels Dorfl would be better deployed elsewhere and I'm sure it's not our place to second guess him."

If Carrot himself was second-guessing the commander's decision, his blank, open expression gave no sign of it. Reg didn't have much of a poker face and his expression clearly said 'I would sooner saw my own head off than work with that smug, Omnian bigot.'

"Captain," said Visit, "I'm sure Fittly will be back on duty soon, is this really necessary?"

Visit shot a sideways look at Reg Shoe which said 'Yeah? Well look at the evidence. The children of Om ascend to heaven when they die and you're still here. If Om in all his infinite grace and wisdom doesn't want you, then I certainly don't want to put up with you and all your wrong-headed political rantings."

"I'm surprised at you both," said Carrot. "I have to say I expected you both to show more team spirit than this."

Reg and Visit exchanged guilty glances. There was something about the way Captain Carrot spoke to you that made you want to be a better person. He'd talk to you in a calm, cheerful way about what a good soul you were deep down and you'd suddenly be filled with an overwhelming urge to prove him right. It was an effect of what Nobby referred to as Carrot's "krisma".

But of course, the effects were only temporary.

 

They say that to keep a conversation amicable, you should avoid discussing politics or religion, but it's possible they forgot to say it to Reg and Visit. As the two of them made their way down Elm Street they appeared to be arguing alphabetically, having begun with ad hominem and made their way, via post hoc ergo propter hoc and reductio ad absurdum to tu quoque.

"And what else are we supposed to do when bigots like you can deny us the basic right to- Are you alright, lad?"

The tail end of Reg's rant was aimed at Kevin Potts, who was watching them with a sort of horrified fascination.

"Are you coppers?" Kevin asked. His tone implied that they might be wearing watchmen's uniforms, but their demeanour left a lot to be desired.

"That's right."

"Then you'd best come quick. Mister Niska's just tried to kill our mam!"

Reg and Visit exchanged a look that said 'I haven't finished arguing, because you're wrong and at some point I will be explaining to you at length why you are wrong, but for now, let's check on the kid's mum.'

"What's your name, son?" Reg asked as the three of them hurried in the direction of Mason's Road.

"Kevin Potts."

"Well I'm Corporal Shoe and this is Corporal Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets. Now why don't you tell us who this Mr Niska is and what happened?"

"He's the upstairs lodger. Our mum lets him the attic room above the boiler. He just sort of burst out and went for our mam, so I shot him."

"You what?"

"I had to!" Kevin wailed. "He was trying to hurt our mam. Only after I'd done it, Mister Glumley came up and tried to kill him while he couldn't run away."

"Mr Glumley?"

"The downstairs lodger. That's when Mam said to fetch a watchman."

They arrived outside 23 Mason's Road: a well built, three storey property from the late Century of the Cobra, which - like most of the other houses in the street - had been carved up into flats. There was a short path behind the gate leading up to the front door. Kevin, like most eleven-year-old boys saw gates as unnecessary contrivances. He vaulted over it without breaking his pace. As Reg and Visit made their way more decorously up the path, a net curtain at a ground floor window twitched.

"I got the watchmen, Mam."

Visit followed Kevin down the hallway which was carpeted in an unattractive mustard yellow and into what was evidently the ground floor flat of Mr Glumley. His attempts at an introduction, however, were completely drowned out by the choking fit of the flat's owner.

"A zombie! In my flat! After what we've just been through, they send a bloody undead? Cheek of it. Well it can get lost, you hear me?"

Visit squinched his chin down into his armour and waited for the inevitable explosion, but it didn't come. Eventually he turned to look at Reg, who was just standing there, his face a perfect blank.

"Um-" said Visit with no idea where the sentence was supposed to go from there, when Reg interrupted him in an unnaturally bright voice.

"Right you are, sir. I'll wait outside while my colleague takes a statement shall I?"

So saying, Reg strode briskly from the room, although Visit noticed that by dint of a carefully placed hand in the middle of the lad's back, he'd managed to steer Kevin Potts out with him.

Visit coughed and tried to regain control of the situation.

"Right, now. What seems to be the matter?"

Out in the hallway, Reg closed the door softly behind him, took his helmet off and sighed.

"C'mon, Kevin. Where's this Mr Niska, then?"

"On the top landing," said Kevin.

"Right," said Reg. "Your mum seemed alright, so we'd best see if Mr Niska needs a doctor."

Kevin looked at him, bewildered.

"What would he want with a _doctor_?"

"There's the Lady Sybil Free Hospital these days, you know. Some people come out alive and you did say he'd been shot."

"Yeah, with my iconograph."

"So he'll need a... eh?"

"The flash was charged up, so when I shot his picture he turned into ashes."

"Mr Niska's a vampire?"

"Black ribbon. His real name's Count Bavoniska Von Klodzdorf, but he doesn't like it. So we called him Mister Niska. 'cept Mister Glumley downstairs - he called him 'that evil bloodsucker'."

"Your Mr Glumley doesn't like the undead much, does he?"

"No. He made you angry just now, didn't he?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, sort of... the way you've squashed your helmet into a ball."

Reg looked down and noticed for the first time what he'd been doing with his hands.

"Oh would you look at that?"

He tried to stretch the helmet back into a servicable shape.

"And what about you, Kevin? How do you feel about the undead?"

"Dunno. I didn't mind Mr Niska even if he did make the landing stink with his cigarettes. I thought he was alright until he went for mam."

"Kevin, are you sure you didn't mistake-"

"No," said Kevin with rock hard certainty. "No offence Mister, but you weren't there. He wasn't like a black ribboner, he'd _changed_. There was something wrong with him and his eyes were all red like in stories and... and...." Kevin's tone was defiant, but he looked close to tears. "And I'm _glad_ I shot him. He was going to hurt my mam."

"You're not in trouble, Kevin," said Reg. "But we need to sort this out. Black Ribboners don't just turn on people for no reason."

"Look, I'll show you--"

They reached the top of the stairs and Kevin raced onto the landing and scooped up a battered brown iconograph box.

"I was over here taking pictures out the window," Kevin explained. "Cos you can see right to the palace if there's no clouds. Mam was over there by the airing cupboard and Mr Niska came racing out his room there and went for her. So I pressed the button like this-"

There was a brief flash of very bright light.

"and he crumbled up in the corner there. Then Mr Glumley came upstairs cos Mam had screamed and he tried to grind Mr Niska into the carpet. That's when Mam said to fetch the police."

"Well, that's all pretty clear," said Reg slowly, looking down at the mustard yellow carpet. "Except for one thing. You said Mr Niska collapsed in the corner here?"

"Yeah."

"So _where is he?_ "

 


	3. Ashes to Ashes

"Mrs Potts, is it?"

Kevin's mum was in her mid-forties. She nodded nervously at Visit.

"Thank you for coming, Officer"

"And is Mr Potts..?"

She shook her head.

"I'm afraid it's just me and Kevin."

"And myself, Officer. Alfred Glumley. And I told her, so help me if I didn't. I said Marjorie Potts if you let a vampire under this roof, don't be surprised if there's a bloodbath further down the line--"

"She certainly looks like she's had a nasty shock," said Visit carefully. "I think under the circumstances a cup of hot sweet tea might work wonders."

Glumley scowled, but took the hint and vanished into the kitchen to bang mugs in a noisy and aggrieved manner.

Visit sat down on the sofa, encouraged Mrs Potts to do likewise and then took out his notebook and pencil.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I lost my Frank in an accident at his work, a year and a half ago. I couldn't afford to keep this place going on my own, so I started letting out rooms. I've known Alfred there for years, he used to live down the road until the stairs got too much for him. We've not always seen eye to eye, but he offered to take the downstairs rooms and we needed the money. They're nice rooms," she added defiantly as if daring him to look at them and say otherwise.

"He's lucky to have them," said Visit solemnly. "And Kevin said you have another lodger?"

"That's Mister Niska. I wasn't sure I'd ever manage to rent the attic room. The boiler's never worked right and the room above it gets ever so damp unless you have the window open all day and you know how cold the winter nights can get here. I'd resigned myself to managing on what Alfred paid, when Mr Niska turned up on the doorstep in his funny cloak and said he'd heard I had a room to let. He looked it over and said he'd take it. He moved in the next day. I couldn't quite understand it."

Visit could. Ankh-Morpork's population had been increasing with every passing year through extensive immigration and the aforementioned cold winter nights. The city walls however, hadn't been extended since the reign of King Cirone II, five hundred years ago.

"It can be quite difficult to find affordable accommodation in the city," Visit suggested tactfully.

"But that's just it. He was posh. You could tell he was posh and he never seemed to be short on funds, so why take a poky, damp little attic room?"

Visit didn't have an answer to this, so he pressed on to more important matters.

"And before today there were never any signs of a violent nature?"

"Well, I mean, he was a vampire, but he had the ribbon and everything. He kept to himself, paid his rent on time and never complained about our Kevin running around the place like some." Mrs Potts scowled in the general direction of the kitchen. "We'd chat a bit sometimes, if he was in the mood. He seemed quite shy, but then today I was getting some sheets out the airing cupboard and he just burst out of his room. I don't mean he ran out, I mean he took the door off its hinges. He was reaching out at me and I don't know what would have happened if Kevin hadn't been holding that camera."

Mrs Potts sighed.

"Once Kev'd turned him to dust, Alfred turned up and was all set to sweep him away entirely. I had to march the pair of them down here and send Kev out to find a watchman. I'm convinced if I hadn't stayed to keep an eye on him, Alfred would have tried to finish the job. You will find out what happened, won't you officer? Why he tried to hurt me like that? Something must have happened, it just wasn't in his nature."

"Nature?"

Glumley had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, dripping with tea and indignation.

"Of course it's in his nature. He's a vampire. That's what their nature is!"

"Ah, Mr Glumley. Perhaps I could take your statement now..."

"You certainly can. I should tell you first off that I don't do well with stairs these days, but I ran right up when I heard Marjorie shout, because I knew, I just knew it would be that vampire. If I've told her once, I've told her a thousand times..."

 

Visit had taken a full statement of events, but that didn't seem to be stopping Alfred Glumley who continued to embroider upon his theme, namely that the undead should be rounded up and either turned out of the city or killed. Out of diligence, Visit was taking this screed down and was on the verge of running out of notebook when Kevin Potts appeared at the door of the downstairs flat.

"The other copper-"

"Corporal Shoe."

"Yeah, him," continued Kevin. "He says you gotta go upstairs, quick."

"Excuse me a moment, Mr Glumley, Mrs Potts."

When he reached the top landing, Visit found Reg on his hands and knees, examining the carpet.

"Did you take their statements?" Reg asked without looking up.

""I've finished with Mrs Potts," said Visit. "Glumley had more to say."

"I'll bet he did," said Reg grimly. "Did either of them mention anything about moving the ashes."

Visit started.

"What do you mean, moving the ashes? Are you saying you've lost them?"

"I haven't lost anything. They're not here. Somebody's moved them."

"Well, it wasn't anybody downstairs. Neither of them's been back up since they sent the boy out to fetch help." Visit began to inspect the floor himself. "What if Niska had one of those kits? He might have reincorporated after they left."

Reg shook his head.

"I can't see one working on a deep pile like this; the vial wouldn't smash. Anyway, it would have happened straight away or not at all. No, what's happened is, somebody's come up here and taken the ashes."

"Who? Nobody else lives here and that old man watches the front door like a hawk."

As a door to door religionist, Visit was familiar with the type. There was a certain sort of person who delighted in watching you through the nets until you were at the front door, then setting his dog on you just for putting a pamphlet through the letterbox.

"Then they're in it together. You think the pile of ash just got up and walked away? It's got no legs!"

"Neither has your theory. I've just been talking to the two of them and there's no love lost there. What about the window?"

Reg shook his head.

"The main part's seized up and covered with paint. Nobody's been in that way."

There was a smaller area along the top of the window standing open, which Visit gave a closer inspection, but Reg was right. You'd struggle to fit a fist through it, let alone an entire person.

"All right then," conceded Visit. "What's your theory?"

"Kevin said Glumley trid to grind Niska's ashes into the carpet. What d'you want to bet that he finished the job soon as the kid was out of sight?"

"Betting's immoral," said Visit, primly. "Anyway, no-one's been ground into the carpet. Look at it."

"Then he's dumped the ashes somewhere else."

They both looked at the open door of Niska's bedroom, which was hanging loosely on its hinges.

"After you," said Visit.

 

Visit stepped into the room behind Reg and then - once he was sure there was no reincorporated vampire slavering in the corner, waiting to pounce - in front of him.

"What a dump. Look, the plaster's coming away from the walls."

"And it stinks," said Visit helpfully. He was never entirely sure how much Reg could smell, between his natural odour of eau-de-zombie and the awful Lily of the Valley cologne he used to cover it up.

The room was bare and damp and smelt of stale cigarette smoke. A small wardrobe held a selection of unremarkable clothes. A shelf above the bed held a few unremarkable books. A small table held an unframed iconograph of Mrs Potts, presumably taken by Kevin. The window - while not painted over like the one in the hall - appeared to have seized shut in the heat and the damp, which would account for the appalling smell of stale cigarettes.

"Washpot, look."

Reg was pointing at the desk, on which sat an ashtray overflowing with decaying cigarette butts and a large pile of grey ash.

"Are you being serious?"

"Think about it! If you were Alfred Glumley and you wanted to get rid of a vampire, how would you do it? You know the kid's going to fetch the watch, so you've not got long. The windows don't open wide enough to get a hand out and dump the ashes. Where's the one place you can hide them until you get a chance to dispose of them and murder Niska for good?"

"Just because he was rude to you doesn't make him a murderer."

"He hates the undead, Washpot. He had means, motive--"

"But no opportunity. Mrs Potts says she never left his side and I'd swear she's telling the truth."

"Well, there's a quick way to find out, isn't there?"

Reg looked at the ashtray again.

"All right, we'll take it back to the station and Cheery can run a test."

Reg had taken a little portable sewing kit from his pocket and was brandishing a needle meaningfully.

"Or we could do the decent thing and test right now."

"Fine, if you're going to be pigheaded. Just don't ask me to explain afterwards why you contaminated evidence at a crime scene with drops of your own blood!"

"My blood?" Reg gave a hollow laugh. "I would if I could, Washpot, but this one'll have to be you."

Which made sense of sorts. Reg, like most long term zombies, was fairly dessicated. That was the only part that made sense, the rest of the suggestion was ridiculous.

"No chance, Reg. I do things by The Book."

"It's allowed! Disrupting a crime scene in order to rescusitate is allowed! That's regulations."

"Reg, that's about giving the kiss of life, not reincorporating the ashes of suspected vampires! Anyway, I meant The Good Book. It says in Ossory 19:28 'And cuttings for a dead person shall ye not make in your flesh.' So you can put the needle away, thank you."

Reg stepped forward angrily.

"Oh, so that's it, is it? Om's not keen on vampires, so you're going to let Glumley get away with it?"

"Would you listen to yourself? Nobody's getting away with anything. We'll follow procedure and take the ashtray to the lab. If Igor and Cheery say it's Niska, we'll bring him back with animal blood. Just because you've got a persecution complex doesn't mean that the rest of the world is incapable of acting rationally."

"Persecution? Look there's a reason vampires scream when they disincorporate and it's not because they're enjoying themselves. If you could look past all that outdated dogma for a moment you'd see that there's a person here suffering agonies because you're not prepared to help him. Now I'm not a religious man, but I'd say any god worth his salt would care more about that than following whatever nonsense he carved into a hillside thousands of years ago when he was probably drunk!"

Visit flushed.

"Take that back."

"I will not. There's somebody in need of help here and you are failing in your duty."

"Don't tell me what my duty is."

Visit rubbed nervously at the turtle pendant around his neck. Reg was standing uncomfortably close and glaring at him with frightening intensity.

"If we're going to quote chapter and verse at each other, why not start with the oath you swore to protect the people of this city 'without fear, favour or thought of personal safety," eh? Because I took the bloody oath too and I don't remember the next line being 'unless that person is a vampire, in which case let 'em suffer!' Do you?"

"Yes, but..."

"There are no buts. You're a watchman or you're not. If you aren't prepared to do this, you can give me your badge."

Visit could hear a noise inside his head, like a kettle boiling. Without quite believing what he was doing, he took the needle off Reg and plunged it into his hand at the base of his thumb. A drop of blood beaded there, then splashed down into the ashtray...

Absolutely nothing happened.

Visit looked at the ashtray in anguish. He'd failed. He'd lost his temper. He'd been asked to choose between God and his job and he'd turned his back on Om.

Visit stared at Reg with a look of absolute hatred.

"Don't you dare tell me I've failed in my duty. Don't you dare. Now you can finish processing the scene and you can explain to forensics why Niska's ashtray has got blood in it. If you need me, I'll be at the watch-house making arrangements for a new partner."

He left the room, sucking angrily at his hand. The door was too badly damaged to close properly, but he tried to slam it anyway.


	4. The Evidence Never Lies

Visit was already halfway down the road by the time Reg decided to chase after him. Reg hurried down the stairs and flung open the door only to be confronted by somebody standing on the doorstep looking shocked to see him. (The zombie thing could do that to people on first meeting.) Reg stepped back and regrouped.

"Can I help you?"

The woman on the doorstep wore a black velvet gown with red inlay and gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. She wasn't wearing a black ribbon, but anybody with half a brain could tell she was a vampire, even before she opened her mouth. (And when she did open her mouth, it was to reveal a set of elegantly pointed canines and an Uberwaldean accent.)

"Vere is Count Barvoniska?"

"His whereabouts is unknown at the present time, we... that is to say I am investigating."

"Unknown?"

"Enquiries are proceding. May I ask who you are, Madam?"

"I am Lady Marissa Barvoniska Von Klodzdorf, the Count's sister and I think you had better tell me everything."

 

Reg took her into the hall and hovered there awkwardly. he didn't have many other options, given that the upstairs landing was a crime scene and that Mr Glumley was still in his flat, hissing and spitting about a "tidal wave of the undead."

As a zombie, Reg tended to view death as something that could be overcome if people would only make the effort and try walking it off. This was not an attitude that lent itself to tact in breaking bad news to relatives. (Although he still wasn't the worst on the force, that honour going to Nobby with "Bet you a dollar you're the widow Jackson?") Lady Barvoniska however, appeared to take the news about her brother's disappearance in her stride.

"I told him something like this vould happen. Coming to live amongst humans, suppressing his own nature. Most unnatural. He'd have done far better to have stayed home in Ubervald vith his family. Still, vot's done is done and I suppose the child cannot be blamed. Ven you have recovered my brother's ashes, Officer, I vill bring him home to convalesce."

Her eyes narrowed at him.

"You vill be recovering his ashes, yes?"

"It's currently my number one priority. However, Madam, as a matter of form, I must ask you a few questions. The first of which being your whereabouts at approximately ten o'clock this morning."

"You think I have taken his ashes? I am afraid you vill have to search more industriously than that officer. I have been in an important meeting all morning."

Reg wrote this down in his notebook, then chewed the end of his pencil thoughtfully as he asked, "And can anybody vouch for your whereabouts?"

"My goodness, yes. A dozen or so people I should have thought, but the principal vitness vould probably be your Patrician."

There was a brief pause as Reg choked on his pencil.

"I see and would you mind giving me an idea as to the nature of your meeting?"

"Yes."

Reg waited.

"I mean yes, I vould mind. Officer, if I may speak frankly, I dislike Ankh-Morpork. I do not believe it is a suitable place for my kind. Certainly it has not been a suitable place for my brother. I travel here infreqvently to conduct business ven no other solution presents itself. Vile here, I comply vith all the ridiculous and invasive rulings imposed by the government and the League of Temperance, but I vill not be providing a full account of my business dealings to the policeman of a foreign power, ven those details are not remotely relevant to the case at hand. Now if you vish to recover my brother's ashes, I suggest you begin by looking for them, because the sooner they are returned to me, the sooner ve can return to Ubervald, vere ve can be accorded the dignity ve deserve!" She smiled at him, kindly. "Ankh-Morpork does not appreciate the undead, vich I am sure you have noticed."

And Reg found himself nodding.

 

"What I'm saying," said Cheery to Angua. "Is that it doesn't have to go _off_ to go _bad_. I mean, you grew up near Bonk, you must have heard what happened at Ledcheb."

"Sort of," said Angua, although her voice was muffled by the towel draped over her head. "It was a dwarf mine that caught fire, wasn't it?"

Their most recent attempt at tracking down the perpetrator of the threatening letter had ended in a cloud of scallatine oil. Cheery had needed to help Angua back to the watch-house so she could steam the remains of it out of her sinuses.

"Not quite. Lechdeb _used_ to be a dwarf mine, but the seam had been abandoned and the upper level had been bought by humans. They'd cleared all the grit and mining equipment out to make it look posh, painted the support struts, polished anything that could be polished and used it as a sort of foot tunnel from the village to the castle. Handy in bad weather, see. The servants could come and go easily."

"And it caught fire?"

"People used to shelter there if the weather got bad. And the weather on the border to Borogravia can get _really_ bad. They were holding Sektoberfest one year when there was a terrible storm and the better part of the village was out amongst the stalls and needed somewhere to shelter, so they all started piling into the foot tunnel in the old Lechdeb mine to wait it out and dry off."

"Then somebody lit a fire?"

"Somebody leaned against a wall and discovered it was too hot to touch. Once word got out that there was a fire further down the tunnel they tried to evacuate, but people at the entrance were still trying to get in..."

Under the steaming darkness under the towel, Angua thought about this.

"There was a crush?"

"A bad one," came Cheery's voice from the outside. " And the entrance was on a slope. With all the rainwater being walked in and no grit left on the floor it turned into a mudbath. You'd have had to swim out even if the way was clear."

"But the other end, the castle?"

"The owners had heard the noise and ordered the doors locked. They thought it was a revolt. This was just as the Dark Empire was failing. Revolutions were everywhere, so it wasn't an unreasonable assumption when they heard crowds of people screaming and banging on the other side."

Angua closed her eyes and pictured it. Trapped down in the dark with the fire. Doors locked against you and the only other exit blocked with mud and and struggling bodies. She shivered.

"They died?"

"Once the ones on the outside worked out what was happening they began hauling people out, but... yes. Some people asphyxiated in the crush, some fell and drowned in the mud..."

"And the fire? How many--"

"That's the thing, there wasn't a fire. The tunnel backed onto where the boiler was for the Lechdeb castle. That wall was always hot. People just panicked. That's my point, you don't need the fire itself. You just need a big crowd in an enclosed space and for one person to shout the wrong thing and you've got a stampede or worse. Carrot grew up in a mine, he'll tell you the same thing. You've got to have rock solid control from the very beginning. If you lose a crowd like that you'll never get them back."

Angua lifted the towel from her head and regarded her colleague blearily.

"Well thanks for that, you've really cheered me up."

"Sorry. How's the nose?"

"It's recovering slowly. I've not got full power back, but I can tell Reg Shoe just walked in."

Cheery jumped up.

"Oh, he'll be wanting the results from that case in Mason's Road."

"I wouldn't hurry down to the lab just yet," said Angua. "I'm pretty sure Carrot will want to see him first."

 

"Shut the door before you sit down, please."

Reg shut the door to the Captain's office and sat down beside Visit, being very careful not to meet his eye.

"Well," said Carrot. "I must say I'm very disappointed."

Visit gave Reg a triumphant look.

"I put the two of you together, thinking you'd be able to put your differences aside and form a team. Instead what happens? I get called in to sort out a dispute because there's been a grievance lodged that one of my watchmen has engaged in religious discrimination against a fellow officer!"

Reg glowered at Visit.

"Only to find that there's a counter-suit against him claiming that he's expressed anti-undead sentiments predjudicial to the proseution of a successful case."

Visit glowered at Reg.

"Now everybody's working extra shifts at present and I realise tempers can become a little stretched, but this sort of behaviour to a brother officer is absolutely unacceptable and it seems to me there's only one way forward."

Carrot leaned forward in his chair.

"You're both going to have to apologise. Reg, say sorry to Corporal Visit for making unpleasant remarks about his religion."

"S'ry."

"And Visit, say sorry to Corporal Shoe for making vitalist remarks."

"S'ry."

"Now, I know you're decent fellows, but we're badly stretched as it is this week and as Mr Vimes is fond of reminding us, crime doesn't take a break. So it's my sincerest hope that this whole sorry situation doesn't repeat itself, because I'll be forced to hand the whole thing over to Mister Vimes to deal with and I'm sure neither of you wants to spend the rest of your time on the force directing traffic."

They both started at the floor as if they'd suddenly had their eyes opened to its many interesting attractions.

"Remember, there's no i in team. Now, I'm sure you're both eager to get out there and prod buttock, so let's hear no more about it, eh?"

They both fled the office in a white-hot haze of embarrassment.

Krisma can be a terrible quality in your line manager.

 

Still suffering from the lingering effects of Carrot, Reg and Visit managed to make it down to the forensics lab acting as if everything was relatively normal.

"This isn't normal," was the first thing Cheery said upon opening the door.

The forensics lab, had improved from its earliest days, when it was just Cheery and her alchemist's equipment in a disused privy, but it appeared to be a universal rule that however much space the department was given, more would always be needed. The alchemist's equipment was still there, but had been added to by a variety of surgical tools belonging to Igor and several large cabinets in use as evidence lockers.

Cheery beckoned them both into the cramped room and pulled Niska's ashtray from one of the evidence lockers.

"I've done you a written report, but the gist of it is this: somebody's lying."

"Who?" said Reg eagerly.

"This was definitely the only ashtray in the room?"

"Yes," said Visit. "So?"

"So it hadn't been used, at least not recently. These are Pantweed's Palatials. That's an upmarket cigarette and it should give a very fine, powdery ash. The ash you gave me had clumped together like it had got wet."

Reg and Visit carefully didn't look at one another, but both said "Um..."

"Oh, no," said Cheery. "I saw your report, but it's not from that. It had happened to the butts as well, didn't you notice how they were all bloated and uncurling? If the room was as damp as you said, I'd estimate they'd been left there for at least a week."

They didn't bother asking if she was sure. Cigarette ash was one of Cheery's specialist topics. She'd talked about publishing a small monograph on the subject.

"So did Niska give up smoking last week?" Visit asked, aloud. "Or was everybody in that house lying about when the crime took place?"

"I don't know," said Reg. Then he grinned. "But I know a man who does."


	5. Suspicious Behaviour

Reg and Visit paused outside an office on Gleam Street. Visit was looking at the door uncertainly.

"I'm not sure about this. You know Commander Vimes doesn't like us talking to them."

"We're not talking to them. We're conducting an interview in the course of our investigation," said Reg firmly. "That's different."

"Why _him_ though?" Visit persisted. "You must have other friends in the Black Ribbon. I mean _you're_ \--"

"Contrary to what you may have been told, Washpot," Reg began coldly, "being undead does not mean that I'm automatically best mates with every vampire in this city. In this case I'm definitely _not_ friends with him. That's why we're here. What goes on at League of Temperance meetings is supposed to remain anonymous. I'm not going to go around asking Arthur and Doreen to blab on their mates for me. Whereas here, we have somebody who basically gossips for a living."

And with that, Reg marched through the door into the offices of the Ankh Morpork Times.

 

Inside, they were greeted by a young man with sandy hair and hardly any chin. His expression of surprise was not so surprising when you considered the longstanding friction between the City Watch and the city's newspaper. Watchmen didn't generally enter the offices of The Times without a warrant.

"Hello, can I help you?"

"We'd like to speak to Mr Von Chriek, please. We have some questions about an acquaintance of his, Mr Niska"

"Of course."

The man walked to the back of the room, where a door was set into the floor and pulled it up. From the cellar below drifted the sounds of, if not an argument, certainly a heated discussion.

"--what I thought was best at the time and I don't see the point in second guessing--"

" Vell, pardon me for not breazink, Villiam, but I don't zink you haff considered ze ramifications of--"

"Excuse me? I've done nothing but consider the ramifications--"

"Ve could haff made zem cancel ze entire thing. Zey vould haff had no choice if you'd--"

The man from the front desk coughed awkwardly and the voices in the cellar broke off.

"Um... there are some watchmen here to see you."

"I'll be right up, Jamie."

"Not you, sir. They want to talk to Otto about a Mr Niska."

A moment later, the pale form of Otto Von Chriek emerged from the cellar.

"Ah, hello officers! And how may I be of service to ze votch?"

 

"I'm sorry," said Otto, "but everyzink vich takes place at ze meetinks of ze League of Temperance takes place under a covenant of secrecy, you understand? You cannot expect me to simply divulge events villy nilly!"

Reg, who had expected exactly that, shook his head solemnly.

"Play ball, Otto. If we can't find out what happened to Niska, the whole thing'll just be recorded as a vampire making an unprovoked attack on an innocent person. People tend to get a bit shirty about that sort of thing. What's a bit of a gossip when the mob's almost at the door?"

"I am from Ubervald, Corporal." Otto shrugged at him. "I know ze feelink of ze mob sharpenink zeir pitchforks better zan you might expect and ve are not zere yet in Ankh-Morpork, I zink. Besides, if I vould offer up secrets told to me under a bond of trust in order to secure my own safety, vould I deserve zat trust _or_ zat safety?"

Reg deflated.

"But if zere is anyzink I can answer from my conversations viz Mr Niska from _outside_ ze meetings of ze league, I vould be most happy to do so."

 

They went into a small office next to the press room. The sound of heavy machinery made the walls rattle and Reg had to raise his voice quite loudly to be heard.

"Were you and Niska close?"

"I vould not say close. He vos alvays a very private person you understand? But our journey home lay in ze same direction and ve vould valk togezzer, so I vould say I knew him better zan most."

"He was a smoker, yes?"

"Oh yes. Zat is certainly no secret. You must undestand zat a certain substitution is necessary ven a vampire becomes b-total. Zere are many possibilities, in my own case it is iconography, but I haff seen coffee, pin collectink and even home improvements used viz great success. For Niska, zat substitute vos cigarettes. A very socially acceptable cravink - most human."

"And what happened last week?"

"Vell, it actually began several veeks ago, ven he became... vot is ze vord?"

"Violent?" suggested Visit.

"Paranoid?" suggested Reg.

"Contemplative," Otto continued. "Our conversations had alvays been most casual. I vould talk about iconography, he vould talk about acclimatising to life in ze big vahoonie."

"But that changed?"

"For no reason I could see, he began talking about ze larger topics. Home, belonging, ze future. You must understand zat in ze black ribbon, ve are encouraged to take everyzink von day at a time and zat to consider long term plans is highly unusual. Zere vos definitely somezink on his mind. Money troubles, perhaps? I did not like to enqvire, but he had posted a letter around zis time viz ze heavy tread of a man payink a large bill and anozzer time I caught him staring at ze pawn shop on Jubal Alley."

"I see."

"So ven he stopped comink to meetinks, I assumed he had gone home again to Ubervald. Certainly his conversation had led me to zat conclusion. I vos most surprised to hear you say vot had befallen him."

"And I don't suppose you can shed any light on--"

Otto smiled mirthlessly.

"No, Corporal. Alvays ve are beink told to leave ze detective vork to ze votch and zat is vot I intend to do."

 

"I don't understand it," said Visit as they proceeded along Cable Street. "Glumley said he'd seen Niska coming and going as usual. So if he wasn't going to the League of Temperance meetings, where was he going?"

"And if he'd been disincorporated for a week, why did the three of them lie about it? What did anybody have to gain?"

"And if he died a week ago--"

"We don't know that he's dead."

"All right, if he _disappeared_ a week ago, we're still back to a scenario where Glumley and Mrs Potts were working together. I just can't see that happening. Especially when you factor in that the kid would have to be keeping the secret too. It sounds a lot less likely than a sudden attack yesterday morning."

"For the last time, black ribboners don't just go around attacking people out of nowhere. Could you try for just five minutes to... Washpot?"

Visit had stopped walking and was staring into space, his lips moving silently.

"Washpot? Visit? Oi!"

"Eh? Oh. Look, what about this for a theory? Niska gave up smoking--"

"He couldn't just give up smoking. Weren't you listening? he was obsessed with it; it was his substitute for--"

"Yes, but _what if he'd found a new obsession?_ "

"Like what?"

"It all fits. Look, suppose the attack yesterday--"

"Assuming it _was_ yesterday."

"It was, I'm sure of it. But you said it yourself, black ribboners don't attack people out of nowhere. So what if it was _premeditated_? What if Niska was planning to kill Mrs Potts? She said herself that he was quite attentive to her. We found that photo in his room. Chriek thought that Niska was planning to leave the country, maybe this was his exit plan? He stopped going to meetings at the same time he gave up cigarettes, because he had no intention of keeping the pledge. It all fits!"

"Why? And I want a better answer than 'because he was a vampire' here, okay?"

"All right, set the vampire thing aside for a minute. What are the four reasons anybody tries to commit murder?"

"D'you mean Old Stoneface's four Ls? Love, lust, loathing and lucre."

"Mrs Potts is quite an attractive woman, that's all I'm saying. Then as soon as her husband dies, this vampire just shows up on her doorstep asking to move into her spare room - which as we've seen is a complete dump - doesn't that seem a bit suspicious to you?"

Reg considered this a moment.

"How did you say her husband died?"

"An accident at work."

"Where did he work?"

 

The Dragon's Landing Redevelopment was a large plot on the Widdershins side of the city, mid-way between the palace and the city wall. It was rare in Ankh-Morpork to find any large space without a vast number of buildings erected upon it, but the Dragon's Landing Redevelopment had become an area of unscheduled urban redevelopment after an unfortunate incident a few years back.

It was currently the main entrypoint to the Ankh-Morpork Long Dark Network, which was more commonly referred to as the Undertaking or the Underground Carriage network. The DLR was where the underground trains of coaches met the surface world.

The network itself stretched the length and breadth of the city, with stations positioned by the major guild houses, the University and in some of the outlying areas like Nap Hill and Dolly Sisters that used to be villages before the expanding city had taken them into its greedy belly. The elegant map of all the linked routes was now displayed throughout the city outside smartly built stations, marked by a logo resembling the dwarf symbol for 'mine'. Some of them, were decorated to match the tone and character of the local area, for instance the station by King's Down was decorated in a large quantity of tiles each bearing the small silhouette of a race horse. Even the more modest stations were still well appointed by virtue of not opening until next week and therefore not yet having succumbed to the weight of graffiti that attached itself to any freestanding structure in Ankh-Morpork capable of bearing paint.

However, for every towering edifice with an imposing front door flanked by columns and crennelation, there is a humble back door intended for those with dirty boots. For the Undertaking, the Dragons Landing Redevelopment was that entrance.

As Reg and Visit made their way across the yard, a variety of artificers, labourers and foremen plied their trades, shifting carts, tracks and machinery in a whirlwind of activity.

An elderly man in a battered top hat stepped forward, clutching a clipboard. He did not look pleased to see them.

"I wish you people would make up your minds."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we're _busy_ here."

"I appreciate that, Sir, but we need to ask you a few questions about the death of Edward Potts."

"Well, come into the hut out the way then."

They followed the man with the clipboard away from the crowds of busy workers and into a large shed, which contained a desk, several filing cabinets, a handful of chairs and a huge number of multicoloured pieces of paper. A neatly engraved plaque on the desk read: George Pony, Senior Engineer.

"I have already spoken to your Captain," began Mr Pony.

Reg and Visit exchanged a look. So there _had_ been suspicious circumstances surrounding the death!

"Nevertheless, Sir. We'd like you to speak to us now. To begin with, we'd like you to tell us what happened to Edward Potts on the day he died."

"He was doing some patching and making good on what'll be the Morpork line, which runs from Shambling Gate to the Hubwards Gate. There's a bit underneath the Cable Street area where we had to narrow to one track, 'cos some of the old cellars around there are still in use and if you try to go under 'em you hit rock molasses."

Reg nodded. The Treacle Mine Road watch house had still been a working mine when he was a kid and it was common knowledge that there was still pig treacle under the area hubwards of the shades.

"We had a switch signal, so people would know if the line was free, but it was a bad winter and the mechanism froze. Potts thought the line was clear and met a test run of The Flying Pictsie coming the other way. He was only on a pump trolley, so you can imagine what happened."

"What's a pump trolley?"

On Mr Pony's wrist, a small watch began to chime the hour.

"I'll show you."

He stepped out of the shed and strode across the yard.

"As you can see, we've updated our safety procedures in light of what happened to poor Edward. We're using a new type of signal, that won't be affected by extremes of temperature and when we're running tests, we evacuate any tunnel section with single line track."

Mr Pony came to a halt in the middle of the yard and cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

"Right, everybody out! We're going to do another trial of the run under Short Street while we've got a chance!"

Workers came out of the tunnel entrance in ones and twos. A couple of them were riding on a wheeled platform. It had a triangle frame on it with a T bar handle that the two of them were vigourously pumping up and down.

"See?" Mr Pony said. "That's a pump trolley. Doesn't stand a chance against a speeding carriage train."

He peered into the tunnel entrance. Something gleamed inside as the light caught it. It looked like a pair of eyes.

"Oi, I said everybody out. We're running a train through."

The eyes didn't move.

"Idiots," said Mr Pony and took a step towards the entrance.

As he did so, a cloaked figure ran from the mouth of the tunnel, leaped onto a passing wheelbarrow and jumped over the fence, taking off at top speed down Bitwash Street.

"Get him!"

"Why?"

"Cos he's running away!"

Reg and Visit scrambled over the fence and hared off after fleeing suspect. As is traditional in these circumstances, their way was quickly impeded by two men carrying a sheet of glass. Visit noticed it at the last minute and managed to dive to the floor, rolling underneath it and scrambling to his feet again on the opposite side.

Putting on an extra burst of speed, they turned into the Street of Cunning Artificers just in time to see the suspect darting over the wall into the Cemetary of Small Gods and racing off through the tombstones.

"Did you see that?" Reg cried in outrage. "That was my grave! He actually ran over my actual grave, the cheeky little bastard."

"According... to... Om..." Visit began, breathlessly. "Cremation... is... more..."

"Oh would you shut up about bloody Om?"

The suspect had reached the other end of the graveyard and was making his way down Tinlid Alley. The houses were close enough together here for washing to be strung on lines between the buildings and the cloaked figure pulled at the lines as he passed sending sheets and underwear tumbling down onto the watchmen's heads and by the time they'd disentangled themselves he'd reached the Musician's Guild and was still accelerating.

They made up some of the distance along Heroes Street and by halfway down Welcome Soap were starting to feel confident.

"He's... made... a... mistake."

"You're telling me. If he carries on this way he's going to run right into the watch house!"

As if he'd heard, the cloaked figure turned hard left onto Easy Street and had almost vanished out of sight up Rime Street Turnwise before Reg and visit managed to correct their course.

"Too... old... for... this."

"Rubbish."

Reg put on a burst of acceleration and the cloaked figure turned left again into Gleam Street. He quickly followed around the corner and the cloaked figure... vanished.

For a moment he was bewildered and then he spotted the open doorway.

"Ah ha!" Reg shouted, bursting into what turned out to be the offices of the Times.

"Hello again," said Jamie from the front desk.

Reg scanned the room. Nothing.

"Erm... has anybody come running in here?"

"You mean apart from you?"

"Yes!"

"Well, there's him..."

Jamie pointed behind Reg where Visit had just burst through the doorway.

Reg glared at Visit.

"He's gone another way. C'mon!"

Reg hustled Visit back out onto the street, where they examined the junction in bewilderment.

There'd been nobody on Gleam Street. There was nowhere to hide along Rime Street Turnwise, which was wide and bare and flanked by a high stone wall on one side and the Ankh on the other. They'd been _coming_ from Rime Street Widdershins, what did that leave?

"Over... the... river?" asked Visit, who was still getting his breath back.

"At this time of year? It's too runny to walk on and too thick to swim."

"Then.. how.. unless.. they.. flew?"

Reg considered this for a moment, then the two of them looked up.

In the evening sky above them, a large number of insects were hovering above the stagnant Ankh and dining upon the insects was a flock of bats.

Visit drew closer to Reg.

"The. sister. had. an. alibi?"

"She said she'd been with the Patrician the whole time."

"Think. it's. time. we. checked."


	6. Innocent-ish People

"I don't intend to repeat myself, Commander."

Vimes regarded Vetinari across the desk in the Oblong Office.

"Look, it didn't _work_. I had two of our best plainclothes officers undercover there, monitoring the entrance."

"Yes, and then as I understand it, two of your worst _uniformed_ officers proceeded to ruin the entire operation."

Vimes scowled the scowl of one who is honour-bound to defend his men, despite wanting nothing better than to give them a clip around the ear.

"It doesn't matter _how_ it was ruined. We don't even know if the one that got away was the genuine article. It could have been Stanley Howler or another of his bloody trainspotter mates trespassing again. What matters is that the ceremony can't go ahead."

"Can't?"

"Look, I understand the city will lose money. I recognise that it's a problem, but innocent people are going to get hurt. You're not the only person that's going to be on that train."

"You surprise me, I've heard you speak on many occasions about your opinion of Lady Selachii, Lord Rust and several other of my fellow passengers. There were quite a few interesting adjectives employed, but I don't recall innocent being among them."

"Innocent-ish people are going to get hurt, then. Look, Cheery's been talking all day about mine disasters. She's got a list as long as your arm and most of those were in established mines that nobody was trying to sabotage. You're talking about a brand new tunnel system, huge crowds of people in an unfamiliar setting, super-fast transport running off an ancient power source that we still don't understand properly... That's all bad enough, but now you want to carry on even when somebody has admitted in writing that they're planning to _blow it up_! Apparently out of nothing more than sheer bloody-mindedness."

"Coming from yourself, that's practically a professional opinion."

"I'm serious."

"So am I, your Grace," said Vetinari, getting to his feet. "What would you have me do? The crowds have formed, if we take away their circus they cease to be a crowd and become a mob at which point we will see first hand what Sergeant Littlebottom has been so vividly describing. The pebbles have begun to fall down the mountain, Vimes. You cannot prevent the avalanche, but with care, you can direct its flow."

"And stricken ships are more expensive than stricken people," Vimes quoted bitterly. "You can dress it up how you want, Sir, but you're trading profits against people's lives and I won't be party to it."

There was a rather diffident knock on the door.

"Enter."

Drumknott appeared in the doorway and Vimes realised he'd been leaning forward over the desk. He leaned backwards and tried to adopt a more relaxed posture.

"Excuse me, your Lordship. There are two watchmen here who say they need to speak with you as a matter of some urgency."

"Which watchmen?" Vimes asked sharply.

Drumknott made eye contact with Vetinari before replying.

"Corporals Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets and Shoe, your Grace."

"Ah. Then happily they will be otherwise occupied as Commander Vimes makes the arrangements for security at the underground stations. No doubt this is a weight off your mind, your Grace. Don't let me detain you."

Vimes's mouth narrowed to a thin line.

"Perhaps I'll just have a quick word with them on my way out."

 

"Washpot, would you calm down?"

Reg and Visit were standing outside a drab looking pub on a drab looking alley. Visit looked extremely uncomfortable.

"Look, we've got her! We just need to throw what we've found in her face and get her off balance so she lets something slip. But we can't do that without being in control of the situation, so can you stop looking around like something's going to eat you?"

"It's an undead pub."

"Yeah? So? There's nothing to be afraid of."

Reg pushed open the door and walked inside.

"Easy for you to say," said Visit, but he followed him in.

"Morning Igor. We're looking for... Never mind, we appear to have found her."

The vampire's eyes widened slightly as she turned around, but otherwise she betrayed no hint of surprise.

"Officer Shoe, so nice to see you again." She nodded at him, then stared coldly at Visit's turtle pendant. "Though I can't imagine your colleague vill make many friends in here vith that particular choice of jewellery ven so many patrons have an aversion to religious artefacts."

"He's an Omnian, your ladyship. Apparently he has to wear it. None of us can help the way we're made."

"I rather thought that vas _my_ point," said the Lady Barvoniska. "Shall ve sit down?"

They moved to a table.

"I'm sorry, we interrupted your order. I daresay you were after a nice glass of red?"

"I don't drink vine."

"Was that 'I don't drink... significant pause... wine'?"

"It vasn't a threat, Corporal. I simply don't drink vine; I prefer to keep a clear head. I may not be as slavish an adherent to the black ribbon as my brother, but I have no intention of harming a single person living in this city."

"Yes, but that does always leave the possibility you intend to harm somebody _not_ living in this city. Me, for example, or your brother..."

"Oh I see, more of your procedural nonsense. I suppose it vas too much to ask that you'd come here vith answers about vot's become of him."

"Actually we've come with more questions. Turns out you've been trying to arrange a contract for the mineral rights to land you don't actually own. We've been at the palace checking out your alibi."

"You mean gossiping vith the clerks."

"Perhaps. Why didn't you tell us that you were visiting Ankh-Morpork in order to convince your brother to sell his land?"

"I had no earthly idea it was relevant."

"If he's dead, you inherit. That's a motive."

" _If_ he's dead, Officer. I have every hope that my brother may yet be found and reincorporated. Besides, a motive for vot, pray? He vas attacked by a small child. The child has confessed."

"Flash photography isn't the same as murder," said Visit. "If Mr Niska-"

"Count Barvoniska Von Klodzdorf."

"Just as you say. If his ashes were scattered so he couldn't reincorporate, then that's murder and we have to consider anybody who may have had a motive to want him gone."

"I think you misunderstand something crucial about vampires, Officer. Immortality, as your co-vorker will tell you, allows vun to play the long game. Yes, I felt my brother vos mismanaging his land, but gold does not rot. It does not fade avay. My brother is a stubborn man, certainly, but I never doubted he vould eventually see the visdom of my position and no matter how long that took, the gold vould still be there.

"Ah, but perhaps the market..."

"Officer, as long as there are dwarves on the disc, there vill alvays be a healthy market for gold."

"Maybe you got impatient? Maybe you finished your meeting with the Patrician and decided you couldn't wait for your brother to sell up? You turned into a bat, flew from the palace, came in at the the upstairs window and stole your brother's ashes. Then as soon as you thought the heat was off, you dumped them in the diggings at Dragon's Landing!"

Marissa's eyes widened.

"Vot a vivid imagination you have. However there are some things you have neglected to imagine. Such as how I could have known about my brother's unfortunate incident vith the iconograph or how I could have been in Mason's Road at the same time that I vos in a meeeting vith not only your patrician, but the heads of all the major guilds in this city. You are a religious man, are you not? An Omnian? Surely it is an article of your faith that only Om can vork miracles."

"Miracles are easy," said Reg, stoutly. He could feel Visit giving him a disapproving look for that one and he didn't care. "Ninety per cent of miracles is just knowing one thing that the people watching don't. Well now _we're_ watching and _we will find out_."

"The miracle to me is how the Ankh-Morpork police force earned such an enviable international reputation ven your powers of deduction are so poor."

She stood up.

"My business vith your Patrician is now concluded. I hope you are able to bring the hunt for my brother to a satisfactory conclusion soon, but I doubt it. I vill be returning to Ubervald later today. I am, as I have mentioned, a busy voman and cannot be detained."

 

"Toying with us," said Reg as they left Biers in a state of high dudgeon. "She was bloody toying with us. We know she did it, she knows we know and we can't prove _anything_."

"Om sees the guilt inside her head," said Visit comfortingly.

"That's great Washpot, only he can't actually arrest her, can he?"

They continued the slow trek back to the watch-house.

"If Niska hadn't been undead, we'd have the papers writing about it. People'd _care_."

Visit thought that with the amount of crimes taking place in Ankh-Morpork each day, it was doubtful that even the most caring of souls had enough energy to cover _all_ of them. He was, however, bright enough not to say so.

"Dunno, Reg. They've got that Undertaking opening this afternoon. Reckon The Times'll probably be full of that."

"That's not the point."

"I know." Visit cast about for something to cheer them up. "D'you want to stop off in New Cobblers and get figgins?"

 

Ten minutes later, Reg's mood had not improved.

"There's hardly any currants in this. And did you see how he'd put his prices up? The cost of a sandwich in there is frankly criminal. And the soup! We could arrest him for that. Two dollars for a mess of pottage is bleeding robbery."

There was an excited spluttering from beside him as Visit tried to talk with his mouth full.

"Oop! Amble! Dinder 'n' Nmble!"

"Um... Washpot, I realise you've always been a bit barmy, but--"

Visit swallowed and started digging around in his pockets.

"No, I've got... Look I've got a pamphlet that explains it."

"Look, no offence, Washpot, but I'm really not in the mood for--"

"Reg, would you shut up for just a minute and listen to me? This is police stuff."

Visit took another bite of his figgin again in his excitement and when he next spoke, it was in an explosive shower of pastry crumbs.

"It's all in the second book of the Octateuch! It's Ginger and Ankle!"

"Ginger and Ankle?"

"They were brothers in Old Omnia."

"You're telling me some bloke was called Ankle?"

"It sounds better in Omnian."

"Couldn't sound much worse."

"Anyway, their old father was nearly blind and wanted to give Ginger his special blessing, but Ankle wrapped his arms in camel skins to make them seem hairy like his brother's and stole the blessing for himself."

"Who's going to mistake a camel skin for--"

"Look, the point is that their dad was fooled by the hairy arms because he wasn't paying proper attention, he reached out, found what he expected to find and didn't look any closer. He wanted to see Ginger - or in this case feel - and that's what he did."

"What's your point?"

"Glumley. You've been saying from the start that he's a vitalist. Thinks all undead are the same. Can't see beyond the grey. _What if it's all camel skins?_ "

Reg considered this for a moment. Many small mysteries began to fizz together inside his head.

"Bloody hell!"

"It explains everything: the cigarettes, the wall, the door... I don't know how she managed the ashes, though."

"I reckon it's time we asked her."

Visit's face fell.

"She'll be halfway to Uberwald by now."

The ideas fizzing inside Reg's head grew louder.

"Not necessarily..."

"Eh?"

"I don't think it was her that took the ashes," said Reg. "Because her plan didn't work. She's not got a signature, so she's not got the land. There's no proof he's dead, so she doesn't inherit. Something went wrong. I reckon Glumley went for the ashes independently."

"If she hasn't got them, she'll want them. Niska could implicate her. D'you think she'll go after Glumley?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She's been waiting to see what we do. Try and think like a vampire for a second. You don't run around searching for them, because that'll get people suspicious. You just wait for the police to find them, then dive in at the last moment. She's been watching us. She's been bloody _using_ us"

"Then why's she going back to Uberwald? She doesn't strike me as the sort to leave loose ends."

"Because you just told her we had reason to believe the ashes were at that train yard."

Visit looked up at Reg in horror.

"She's had a hell of a head start," said Reg.

"And Commander Vimes got ever so shirty at the Palace. You heard him, he said he'd have our badges if we didn't stay away from Dragon's Landing," said Visit unhappily.

The fizzing in Reg's head came to a crescendo.

"Nah," he said. "That's all right. Cos it's hot pursuit and everybody knows you can go outside your jurisdiction if you're in hot pursuit."

"It doesn't feel like a very hot pursuit when the suspect's had twenty minutes head start," said Visit, gloomily. "By the time we get there the trail will be stone cold."

From a few streets away in Treacle Mine Road, a sound rose above the usual roar of the streets of Ankh Morpork. That sound was BEEBARBEEBARBEEBAR.

"No," said Reg. "I'm pretty sure this pursuit is about to get very hot indeed..."


	7. On the Right Track

Mr Steel was not a fan of the police.

The axiom 'innocent people have nothing to fear from the police' is currently up for review by the axioms review board and this is due, in a large part, to the campaigning of people like Mr Steel.

Steel was a costermonger who had, at one point or another, plied his trade selling fruit and vegetables in cities and townships from Chirm to Pseudopolis. Since the Sto Plains were an agricultural area whose main source of income was vegetable farming, Mr Steel could have been expected to prosper. However in a world that runs on narrativium, there are very specific dangers that await those who sell cabbages from a stand by the side of a busy road, particuarly when the city in question has an active police force.

Mr Steel had given the problem a lot of time and thought. Upon arriving in Ankh-Morpork, had set up his stand in Three Lamps Alley, which was close enough to Short Street to take advantage of passing trade, but tucked away enough that he would be safe from shouts of "Follow that cart!"

As a believer in good signage, Mr Steel was in the middle of carefully adding an apostrophe to the word 'cabbages' when he heard the noise in the distance.

BEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBAR!

Mr Steel looked cautiously around the corner of Three Lamps Alley. Coming up the main road with no apparent regard for the other traffic was a sleek looking cart. It was being pulled at high speeds by a excitable looking roan horse and driven by a grey faced man with every indication of glee, while beside him another man was hunched down with his hands over his eyes.

Mr Steel retreated back into the alley and carefully selected a crash helmet from a secret shelf in the back of the vegetable stand. As the cart got closer, he could hear the sound of voices over the sirens.

"OmwhoartinCoriCelestihallowedbethy--"

"Will you shut up? I can't concentrate on driving."

"Driving? Is that what you call it? Rampaging is what--"

"Ah ha! A short cut. We can avoid the junction at the corner of Artificers this way."

"Three Lamps Alley? Reg, are you mad? It's too narrow for th--"

Mr Steel grabbed the cashbox and flung himself into the nearest doorway. A moment later there was an explosive collision and it began raining cabbages.

Swearing under his breath, Mr Steel cautiously stepped back into the alleyway to inspect the damage. The stall was in several pieces and his stock was rolling around in the dirt. He bent down to begin collecting it up, then recoiled to see an ear lying amongst the cabbage leaves.

"Yeurgh!"

A zombie came running down the alley towards him and snatched up the ear.

"Sorry about the stall. Must dash!"

Mr Steel watched in horror as the zombie ran back to the cart, which was parked at the far end of Three Lamps Alley. There was a brief argument between the two passengers ending in a shout of "No, I'll drive, you sew" and then the siren started up again as the cart accelerated away.

Mr Steel, leaned against the wall and slumped slowly to the floor. Perhaps it was time he took up the offer of a job on his brother's shrimp boat in Genua?

 

By the time they pulled up at Dragon's Landing, Reg's ear was re-attached and the argument had reached a good head of steam. They scrambled down from the cart only to fall into silence when they realised that their way was blocked by yellow tape saying 'Ankh-Morpork City Watch - Thys Is A Crime Scene - Do Notte Cross'. More importantly it was also blocked by the impressive bulk of Sergeant Detritus.

"Nobody goes in."

"It's alright Sarge, we're in hot pursuit."

"Ah, but dere's nobody in dere to pursue."

"How do you know that?"

"Cos I got orders dat nobody goes in."

"What about bats? She could have snuck in as bats; we need to go in."

"Mister Vimes says nobody goes in dere, specially not you two."

Reg and Visit exchanged a look. It was quite an involved one and the underlying conversation went something like this.

'We're in the middle of a heatwave and Detritus has never been particularly swayed by debate even when his brain's at a reasonable temperature.'

'Yes, but we can't just walk away.'

'No.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'Stoneface is going to go absolutely Bursar.'

'Well, if you want to let a murderer get away because you were afraid of getting in trouble.'

'Oh shut up.'

'No, you shut up.'

'No, you shut up.'

The two corporals turned to Detritus and smiled.

"Fair enough, Sarge. Can you just move to one side for a minute so we can turn the cart around?"

BEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBAR!

The horse, who was called Strawberry - hadn't much liked smashing into the vegetable stall. Smashing through the yellow tape on the other hand, was child's play.

Detritus chased after them of course, but the thing about trolls is that they can't run very fast.

 

It was dark in the tunnels. Lamps were slung from the walls at intervals, but they didn't do much more than add texture to the darkness. Lady Barvoniska was pacing around in the part of the tunnels where the service track formed a T-junction with the main 'Sity and Guilds line.

Visit climbed slowly down from the police cart, keeping his crossbow aimed at the vampire.

"Marissa Barvoniska von Klodzdorf, I arrest you for the attempted murder of Count Barvoniska von Klodzdorf, unlawful entry to 23 Mason's Road and the Ankh-Morpork Undertaking, the attempted theft of the Smarl Mountain mining district and the kidnap of--"

"As inept as ever, I see," said Lady Barvoniska, inspecting the iron crossbow bolt. "You do realise, that won't kill me."

"It'll slow you down," said Visit.

"Only if you can pull the trigger before I reach you."

The vampire leapt at Visit only to run into Reg's fist. Visit's shot went wide destroying the nearest lamp and plunging the section of tunnel deeper into darkness. There was a moment of confusion and then the sound of running feet.

"That way!" Visit shouted, charging off after Lady Barvoniska down the Rimwards tunnel.

"Thanks for saving my life, Reg. Oh, you're welcome, Washpot. It's nice to be appreciated..."

"Thanks, alright? Now can you be sarcastic at me later? She's getting away."

They thundered up the tunnel. Lady Barvoniska, heard them gaining on her and turned to fight, only to be promptly knocked to the ground under the weight of Reg Shoe.

"You are under arrest!" Reg thundered triumphantly.

"Um... Reg?"

Reg looked up. They were not alone in the tunnels. Jamie Selachii of the Ankh-Morpork Times was regarding the three of them thoughtfully from a little further up the track.

Reg preened for a moment. It wasn't often that the papers actually noticed the watch doing something heroic. Then he focused on the barrels sitting on the track behind Jamie. They were labelled 'Property of the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Alchemists - Finest No. 1 Powder - Not to be taken away.'

There was an uncomfortable pause then Jamie ran for it. Barvoniska took advantage of Reg's distraction to throw him off and vanished in the opposite direction.

"I'll get him, you get her!" Visit shouted, hot footing it after Jamie in the direction of Dragon's Landing.

"The barrels!" Reg shouted, racing up the Widdershins tunnel after Marissa. "Get the barrels! The train'll be through!"

And indeed, the floor to the tunnels had begun to vibrate slightly underfoot. The dwarf devices to power the journey were being wound up at the palace.

Hoping like hell that there was still a guard posted on what remained of the gateway at Dragon's Landing, Visit climbed down onto the tracks and began to heave the barrels aside.

He'd barely cleared them when a yell and a crash from further down the tunnel had him chasing back the way he'd come.

BEEBARBEEBARBEEBARBEEBAR!

"Reg, get the cart off the tracks!"

"It's not me! She's nicked it! She's nicked the cart!"

Visit didn't need to ask how. It was all horribly clear as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Reg lying on the floor several yards from his left leg, trying to drag himself towards it. Further up the tunnel, Strawberry and the police cart were accelerating away.

"That's it then," said Visit. "She's won."

Reg looked back at the maintenance track, where the pump trolley sat.

"Bugger that," said Reg. "Help me up."

A moment later and they were both sat on the pump trolley, Reg hanging unsteadily from the T shaped grip, the detached leg held firmly on the trolley platform under Visit's foot. The trolley made a creaking noise as Visit depressed the handle and lurched a few feet down the track.

"You're mad, you know. Overtake a speeding horse on this thing?"

In answer, the grip was wrenched upwards so quickly that he nearly fell off the trolley. Reg might have trouble keeping all his limbs in the same place, but when it came to brute strength, there was nothing to match a truly determined zombie. Visit hung on for dear life as Reg worked the handle to a blur, speeding down the dimly lit tunnels after the police cart.

"We're never going to make it."

The police cart was almost out of sight, Strawberry racing onward at unprecedented speeds simply to get away from the creature of the night holding the reins. Reg continued pumping, but apeared to have reached the same conclusion.

"We haven't got a prayer, have we?"

It is possible that if Reg had worded this differently, the events of that day would have had a very different outcome indeed. Because Visit had been raised to believe that you always had a prayer. It might not be answered (because it might not fit in with Om's plans) and you couldn't rely on prayer alone (because Om helps those who help themselves), but at the end of the day it was always worth a try. This was all something Visit knew right down in the hollows of his bones, so he grabbed the golden turtle pendant from around his neck, leaned out over the track, swung it around his head a few times and threw it after the departing vampire.

It was a million to one shot.

 

Strawberry was not having a good day.

First he'd been taken out of his nice quiet stable and made to pull a police cart at unsustainably high speeds. He'd been driven into a vegetable cart and not even allowed to go back and eat any of the unattended carrots. He'd been forced through a police barricade and into a dark nasty tunnel. He'd been hijacked by a vampire, who had been extremely overgenerous with the whip and who was now making terrifying screaming noises because something was caught in her hair.

Strawberry had had enough.

Taking advantage of the fact that the vampire had dropped the reins to claw at her hair, Strawberry lurched hard to the right, snapping his traces and aiming for a side tunnel. Unencumbered by the police cart, he managed to put on a burst of speed as he raced off hubwards up the Morpork line towards Dolly Sisters Station.

The lone police cart continued its unsteerable journey into University station under its own momentum.

 

The train was behind them, it had to be, but it sounded like it was all around them. A low rumbling noise filled the tunnel and a warm breeze raced past them as if the air itself was being pushed up the tunnel by something large moving at full speed.

Reg was still frantically pumping at the handle.

"Reg, stop it. We've got to get off the tracks."

"What? Slow down now, are you mad?"

Visit looked around for anything that might pass as a brake, while Reg continued to frantically accelerate.

"You can't outrun a train Reg. We're going to get creamed."

"Yeah, well if I stop pumping now we're gonna get cheesed!"

Visit saw a raised black mushroom protruding from the floor of the pump trolley and came to a decision.

"Look, when I say go, you swing all your weight to the left, okay?"

And, praise Om, Reg didn't even argue.

"Okay."

"GO!"

Visit stamped down hard on the metal mushroom. The wheels locked beneath them, the pump trolley made an anguished screeching noise and then lurched as Reg pulled with all his might on the handle, toppling the pump trolley and pulling it off the tracks.

They landed hard in a big heap on the floor beside the tracks and then skidded further down the tunnel until the laws of Physics got bored with them. Visit did a mental inspection of himself. Reg had mostly broken his fall, but the handle from the pump trolley had crashed into his stomach and knocked all the wind out of him. He was a mass of cuts and bruises and his ankle hurt like nothing he could describe.

"I told you we--" began Reg.

Suddenly the rumbling grew to a crescendo and on the tracks where they had stood merely seconds earlier, a train zipped past at breathtaking speed, whipping up clouds of dust and dirt and blowing Reg's detatched leg towards them so that it kicked Reg in the ear.

The train went by too fast to see, but later Visit would swear that he'd seen the face of Lord Vetinari staring at them from a carriage window, looking uncharacteristically surprised.

 

Otto von Chriek was waiting apprehensively at Unseen University station with his iconograph fixed on the tunnel entrance, waiting for the first train to pull in.

Vampires have quite good hearing and as such, he was one of the first to notice that the noise coming from the approaching vehicle sounded rather familiar.

BEEBARBBEBARBEEBARBBEBARBEEBARBBEBARBEEBARBBEBAR!

"Champagne?" Asked a cheery voice from beside him. "Toast the arrival and all that? Ah, but I see you're working. Never mind, there'll be plenty more at the celebrations afterwards"

The Archchancellor of Unseen University wandered away again, draining the second flute in a sprit of waste-not-want-not. Otto continued to stare through the lens at the tunnel.

From the sound of things, somebody else on the platform had good hearing as a whispered conversation was taking place nearby.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but something's up. It sounds like one of the new police carts."

"Ye Gods, it's not Nobby is it?"

"I'd have smelled him by now, even with all these people around."

"So who can you sm--?"

The siren got louder and a murmuring began among the people on the platform. Otto very cautiously raised his head from the iconograph in time to see everybody staring at the tunnel as a horseless police cart careered into the station and skidded to a stop.

There was a moment of total silence, which was rapidly filled by the sound of an approaching train.

Otto hastily got his head back down.

From the viewfinder of the iconograph, he could see the shaken looking driver of the police cart realise that the pathway of an oncoming train was probably not the safest place to be. The driver vanished and a cloud of bats flew up to the ceiling of the tunnel, seconds before the train arrived and reduced the police cart to a lot of very expensive match wood.

Otto pressed the shutter. Instantly the tunnel was filled with the bright light of the salamanders and he was subjected to the painful, but familiar sensation of crumbling into dust for the fraction of a second before the little vial he wore around his neck smashed on the platform and brought him back.

He looked around for a follow-up shot. There were no bats flying around anymore, but the station seemed to be filled with a great deal of dust, which was falling gently from the ceiling and landing along the track, on the crowds and, unfortunately, into the champagne glasses.

The train doors opened and a silver topped cane emerged, followed by Lord Vetinari and some rather green looking aristocrats.

Vetinari stepped forward and cut the octarine ribbon that was running in a yellow-ish line across the platform edge.

"I hereby declare this station open."

The crowd cheered and toasted and threw their hats in the air in the manner of those who have already had a good deal of champagne while they were waiting.

Otto got a picture of the cheering crowds, as a result of which, he completely missed Lord Vetinari addressing Commander Vimes.

"Tell me, your Grace, are badly parked police carts to be an integral part of the new travel experience?"

 

Vimes found them halfway down the tracks. Reg was favouring his right leg, his left having been recently reattached by loose, hasty stitches, but he was putting enough weight on it to help Visit along, who was looking considerably banged about and wheezing quite horribly.

Other than that, they seemed to be intact, so Vimes felt fully justified in bellowing at them.

"What the hell's gone on here?"

Visit's attempts at explaining were hoarse to the point of being incomprehensible, but Reg took up the tale.

"We were in hot pursuit, Sir. Lady Barvoniska was assisting us in our enquiries. Can, um... Can you tell us what happened to her?"

Their faces as Vimes recounted the tale of the destroyed cart and the subsequent cloud of dust were a picture of dismay.

"But that means she can't give a statement. We're never going to get the full story!"

Visit wheezed again and elbowed Reg.

"Oh, right. Yes. Sir, I should also warn you that we found a young man attempting to place several barrels of dynamite onto the tracks between here and Gleam Street."

"What? Where is he!"

"He got away, Sir."

The next part of this conversation might have gone very badly for Reg and Visit, had three figures not marched up the track towards them.

"Dis man from der paper was messing around behind der barrier, Sir."

It was Sergeant Detritus, George Pony and an extremely sullen looking Jamie Selachii.

"Caught him on his way out."

Slightly mollified, Vimes turned to Reg and Visit.

Well you're still on the hook for that damned Police Cart. Those things cost--"

"Bingley bingley beep!"

The voice had come from Vimes' pocket. He groaned to himself, but pulled the disorganiser from his pocket anyway.

"Good afternoon, Insert Name Here. The time is now five thirty pee em and you have an alert in your calendar for six. Would you like me to remind you again later?"

"No," said Vimes. "Carrot, I'm going home. Take the reporter down the nick, I'll deal with these two this evening."

He flicked a thumb in the direction of Reg and Visit, who for no reason he could discern had suddenly started grinning.

 

Not long afterwards, down in the tunnels, Mr Pony and his men were quietly removing the remains of the police cart from the track at Unseen University Station. The caterers were clearing the empty champagne glasses from the little tables, tidying them away and taking the opportunity to pocket any bottles that were not quite finished. On the platform, a member of the Signwriters' Guild was carefully painting a blue and white notice on the wall that said "Let the world be your mollusc with our new Ormer Card!"

Unnoticed by any of them, in an unwatched corner of the tunnel, Marrissa Barvoniska reincorporated with a quiet 'whoomph'. She looked around at the assembled workers, shook herself and began to walk along the dusty tunnel.

She'd hoped to remain unnoticed, but a hand extended itself from the shadows and offered her a glass of champagne.

"I do not drink... vine!"

SUIT YOURSELF. TO BE HONEST, IT'S NOT A TERRIBLY GOOD VINTAGE.

She'd gone a few paces more when something about the harmonics of the champagne-offerer's voice began echoing in her head. She looked down again at the tunnel floor. The extremely dusty tunnel floor.

LADY MARISSA BARVONISKA VON KLODZDORF? THIS WAS YOUR UNLIFE.

And in the darkness of the tunnel, a scythe swung.


	8. Reverse Chelomovediffamy

Amongst the Chelomovediffamists who study the moods of the great star turtle to see how they are distributed upon the Disc above, there is a controversial theory that the connection is, in fact, two-way and that sufficiently strong emotions felt on the Disc can transmit themselves back down to the turtle below.

This has never been proven and is mostly just an excuse for people to insult one another in scientific papers.

 

"I expect you're here to tell me that the watch-houses are need of new dartboards?" Vetinari asked as Vimes walked into the Oblong Office.

"Yes Sir," said Vimes, leaving a pause just long enough before adding "of course we still need a new riverboat. And some more squad carts. We'll need to replace the one that was destroyed, obviously, but there's scope for expansion beyond that."

"I see. You understand of course that the city isn't made of money."

"Could be, Sir. Then again it does seem to be turning a healthy profit already on the Undertaking."

"Possibly because of the, let me see, what did they call it..." Vetinari picked up a copy of The Times from his desk and shook it out. "Ah yes, the 'captivating publicity stunt at Unseen University Station.' Tell me, do you think de Worde actually believes the cart was left on the track as a means of demonstrating the strength of the new trains?"

"He must do," said Vimes, carefully. "Else he wouldn't have printed it."

"Do you know I rather think he finds it _painful_ to publish anything he knows isn't the absolute truth?"

The two men looked at one another blankly and very carefully did not exchange a smile.

"Jamie Selachii's confessed," said Vimes, getting back to the matter at hand. "Although considering all the insurance policies he took out on his aunt's life and the fact he was caught red handed, the confession's just a formality, really."

"A rather impatient young man."

"Don't know about impatient, Sir. Dangerously insane's what I'd call it. He'd have killed you and everybody else on that train just to get rid of her without suspicion."

"And the sudden career change?"

"The job at The Times gave him an opportunity to drop that letter in De Worde's in-tray, making it look like the whole thing would be just another plot against you," said Vimes, more out of formality than anything. He doubted he was telling Vetinari anything the man didn't already know. "And it gave him an excuse to go poking around the diggings at Dragon's Landing to suss out the whole setup. He must have thought Hogswatch had come early when he found the cellars at the newspaper offices run right beside the tunnels and he could come and go unobserved."

"Not quite unobserved. I understand he was spotted on more than one occasion by your officers."

This was true, unfortunately the first sighting had ended in a scallatine bomb and a very sick werewolf, while the second time had been by Reg and Visit who thought they were chasing a vampire.

"However, as Lady Selachii has impressed upon me the need to avoid scandal and the current story appears to be doing wonders for sales of train tickets, I'm inclined to take matters from here myself."

The Patrician carefully rearranged the files on his desk.

"However, there remains the question of how to deal with the officers who allowed the cart to be left on the tracks in the first place? I also have a letter here claiming damages from a Mr Steel who says that the two of them have destroyed his cabbage stand. It seems to me that they've caused a great deal of damage and broken a number of rules, if not laws, along the way."

"Well, Sir. I thought I'd promote them, Sir."

"Do you not feel they should be punished for such infractions, Vimes?"

"Oh yes, sir. That's why I'm going to insist they keep working together."

This time the smile was exchanged.

 

"Good morning officers, I... oh. Are you all right?"

Reg and Visit had jointly decided that some things were more important than rest and recuperation. Igor hadn't been happy, but they had insisted. The result was that when Mrs Potts opened the door to them, they were still bearing the evidence of their underground adventure. Reg was covered with hasty, uneven stitching and Visit was only walking with the aid of a crutch.

"All in the line of duty," said Reg, heroically. "May we come in?"

"Of course. Do you need to ask us some more questions?"

"No," said Visit. "We are, by the grace of Om, finally able to bestow some answers."

They went and sat in the downstairs living room with Mrs Potts, Mr Glumley and Kevin. Glumley was extremely unhappy about allowing Reg into the flat, but Visit glared at him until he stopped speaking.

"My colleague," said Visit, indicating Reg, "has a bit of a bee in his bonnet about undead rights. I tend to think he exaggerates, but it's clear that Mr Niska had a troubled life. His sister cared more about wealth and status than her only surviving relative. He met people through the Black Ribbon, but didn't have anybody you could truly call a friend there. In fact it's quite possible that Mrs Potts and Kevin here were the closest friends he had. Certainly relations with his other close neighbour could best be described as strained."

"And?" Glumley scowled. "I was right, wasn't I? She treated him like a person and he went for the jugular. I was just thinking of Mrs Potts, here! Vampires are all the same."

Reg walked over to Glumley.

"Your 'vampires are all the same' nonsense nearly killed an innocent person."

"He wasn't innocent. He was a bloody vampire!"

"And Mrs Potts?" Visit asked quietly.

"Eh?"

"The attack on her could have been avoided if you'd spotted the camel skins."

"What? What camel skins?"

"Ah, well in Old Omnia, there were two brothers called Gin--"

"Washpot!"

"I'll... um... I'll leave you some pamphlets you can browse through."

"In at the landing window in bat form, then out the front door wearing her brother's cloak," said Reg. "All that time watching and you never noticed that it wasn't the same vampire! That Mr Niska hadn't left his room for a week, cos she'd chained him up in it!"

Reg looked around at the inhabitants of Mason's Road, three pairs of wide eyes stared back at him, but perhaps one pair was a little less innocent than the others.

"You could see where he'd pulled away from the wall; there were great lumps of plaster missing. Then there was the ashtray, it was all old cigarette butts that had started to rot in the damp, He hadn't been smoking."

"Mister?"

Kevin Glumley was raising his hand.

"Um... sorry, but you're wrong. Cos I smelled him smoking right up to when he went for Mum and you can definitely tell. The smell gets all over the house."

"D'you know what hallucinations are, Kevin?"

"Yeah, cos Dunite's big brother Emery used to buy slab off Hardcore an' it made him see--"

"Well," interrupted Reg, having seen Mrs Potts's horrified expression. "Vampire hallucinations are contagious. When you walked past the door, you could smell cigarettes because that's what the Count was fixated on. He'd been trapped in that room with no cigarettes for a week, slowly going mad. That's what his sister was counting on. She wanted him to be in a disturbed state of mind, a state where he'd do anything for a sniff of tobacco, even sign away his birthright. Only something went wrong. The Count never signed. He must have had quite astonishing strength of will. His higher brain functions are crumbling away and he's still not prepared to let her get away with it. I think that's a remarkable feat. I should like to have met him."

"You're not trying to seriously claim that the vampire _couldn't help_ attacking people?"

"The philosopher Didactylos once said that civilisation was only two square meals away from barbarism. You have to understand that removing the source of a vampire's transference is like starving him."

"But he wanted to hurt my Mam," said Kevin.

Reg shook his head.

"No, Kevin. He didn't _want_ to hurt her. He liked your mum a lot."

"The unanswered question, you see, is _why_ ," said Visit. "Why didn't Niska just give in and sign over the land? He had no great attachment to it. He'd come to Ankh-Morpork intending never to return to Uberwald. He'd even stopped using his title. Why not give it all up? Let his sister be a countess and go back to Uberwald with the gold? Come to that, why was his sister forcing the issue now? She'd said herself she had all the time in the world. There _had_ to be more to it."

"Which brings us back to what we know of Niska's state of mind. We know he'd been more thoughtful than usual, that he'd been talking about the future, home, family, belonging... Otto thought that meant he was planning to go back to Uberwald."

"Then there were his actions during the week before last. He'd posted a letter he was apparently worried about. He'd been preoccupied by the pawnbroker's shop in Jubal Alley."

"So we've just taken a trip to Jubal Alley. According to the pawnbroker, Niska had never been inside the shop, but he'd spotted him a couple of times looking at the jewellery in the window display."

"And we thought, what if Niska was considering something that would give him a future in Ankh-Morpork? What if the letter was something his sister wouldn't approve of, something that would stop her from ever becoming Countess and getting her hands on that land? What if Niska was going to buy a ring?"

Kevin's mouth fell open, Mrs Potts looked surprised, but not unhappy and Glumley appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy.

"That's _disgusting_!"

" _You're_ disgusting," said Kevin, with feeling. "You never even talked to him. You just thought the worst. _An'_ about me an' Mam. You just assume stuff about people an' you never listen an' you were going to kill him! You tried to grind him into the carpet and it wasn't even his _fault_!"

Kevin looked close to committing murder himself and Reg placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"But he didn't, Officers. He couldn't have. Alfred may be... misguided about some things, but he was with me the whole time. There's no way he could have taken those ashes and there was nobody else in the house!"

"But there was," said Reg. "There was somebody right there on the landing when I arrived and I never even noticed them. I'm afraid your Kevin will have to help me out with their name, though."

"Clive," said Kevin, looking at Reg as if he were a wizard.

"Would you go and fetch him, please?"

"You've got really thick carpets here, Mrs Potts," said Reg as Kevin trotted out of the room. "Lovely deep pile. I expect it would be almost impossible to pick a pile of ash out of a carpet like this, even with a really good brush and to do it without leaving a trace behind? Well, you'd need very small hands..."

Kevin re-entered carrying his iconograph box. Reg knocked theatrically on it and a door popped open. The small face of Clive the imp emerged and stared at the watchmen.

"Oh, shit."

 

As Reg helped Visit down the stairs a little later, Kevin Potts was sitting on the top step, looking unhappy.

"Not going to go up and say hello?"

Kevin shook his head.

"Mam said she wanted to talk to him in private first. Um... d'you think he'll be angry with me?"

"What for?"

"Using the flash on him. Telling Clive to hide him. Thinking he wanted to hurt Mam." Kevin shrugged. "Everything."

"I shouldn't think so, Kev. You saved your mum's life taking that picture. You might have saved Mr Niska's by hiding him from Glumley. The only thing you did wrong was not telling us where he was in the first place. We could have brought him back and found out about his sister much earlier."

"Yeah, but Dunite's big brother Emery says you can't trust coppers."

"Well this copper says you can't trust Dunite's big brother Emery. Or anybody else stupid enough to buy slab off Hardcore."

Kevin brightened up.

"Hey, is it true that a watchman nailed Hardcore's ears to a wall an' that's why he don't sell it any more?"

"That was never proven," said Visit in the comfortable tones of one speaking the exact truth.

"Only, I've been thinking an' if I can't be an iconographer when I grow up, I reckon now that I want to be a watchman."

 

Glumley was standing in the doorway of his flat, glowering at them as they left.

"Everything all right, Sir?" Reg asked with exaggerated politeness.

Glumley ignored him and addressed Visit, instead.

"How did you do it then, eh?"

Visit looked at him in honest bewilderment.

"Do what?"

"If it supposedly wasn't his fault and he just went for the nearest person, how come you two managed to bring him back without him attacking you, eh?" Glumley asked with the air of one laying down an ace.

Visit smiled, always glad of a chance to spread the good word. He pulled a small object from around his neck and showed it to Glumley.

"Ah, I was protected, you see; I was wearing the holy turtle. And of course, since Om helps those who help themselves we also took the precaution of buying several packs of Pantweed's Palatials from the tobacconists before we arrived."

Glumley examined the pendant suspiciously.

"Doesn't look like a turtle. It just looks like a blob to me."

"That's because it was run over by a train during the performance of a miracle," said Visit, taking it back. "Om takes many forms. There's more information on the subject in these."

He stuffed a wad of pamphlets into Glumley's unresisting hands and turned to go, but Reg had paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"I didn't need a holy symbol," said Reg. "Zombies are surprisingly strong."

Then they walked out, leaving Glumley gaping at the handprint Reg had left in the brass doorknob as if it were wet clay.

For once Glumley didn't take up his position in the window to spy on the watchmen as they walked down the path, but if he had done, he would have heard a conversation like this...

"You threatened him!"

"I certainly didn't."

"Reg, I _know_ you're capable of opening a door properly."

"I was just a bit overzealous. I'll be happy to pay for the damage if necessary."

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar is all I'm saying."

"Oh, I should have just given him a bunch of pamphlets he'll never actually read, is that it? And what was all that about miracles?"

"Our success in the tunnels was through the grace of Om. What else would you call it?"

"What, when you chucked that necklace? It was a million to one chance, that's all. Everybody knows they crop up nine times out of ten."

"Well, statistics," said Visit dismissively. "You can prove anything with statistics. 'The fool hath said in his heart--'"

"I'll tell you what'll be a miracle. It'll be a miracle if we get the paperwork on all this lot finished before Hogswatch."

Bickering happily, Reg and Visit proceeded down the road towards the sort of spectacular sunset only possible in a city as polluted as Ankh-Morpork.

 

And thousands of miles beneath them, Great A'Tuin smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a reveal post with info on deleted scenes and stuff [here](http://adaptationdecay.livejournal.com/2929.html) if anybody's interested.


End file.
